


What the king wants

by saturnina



Category: The Tudors
Genre: Blasphemy, Crack, Gen, Henry VIII Has a Potty Mouth, Henry VIII is a Pervert, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, M/M, Sexual Humor, Thomas Cromwell Feels, Who Cares About Historical Accuracy Anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnina/pseuds/saturnina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was he succumbing to some sort of unknown disease, and the symptoms were headaches and delusions of clairaudience?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the king wants

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE (Aug 2017): I corrected a few typos! Thank you everyone for reading and leaving all the lovely comments here! This fanfic is a bit old but it's still one of my personal favourites. :o)

_[ ... ]_ = Henry's thoughts

 

The day had started badly for Thomas Cromwell, and the sun had barely crested the horizon. Not only was he drained from going to bed late in the night again, but had also been rudely woken by a dull, pounding headache hammering in the back of his skull the following morning. It came to his mind, as he dragged himself out of his bed and walked toward the basin of water left on a nearby oak chest, that he might have taken more of his stimulant medicines the last day than he had intended. What a bad idea it was to overdose himself, especially when the realm was facing a rebellion.

A rebellion that was about to end very soon. Thomas remembered John Constable had been punished by Edward Seymour just the day before yesterday, a punishment that Sir Rich had detailed to him in a low, conspiratorial voice as they walked back to their office after another audience with the king. Too much information—he would rather not know of Mr Constable's rectum final destiny.

The king. Thomas rubbed his face raw in an attempt to look more like a human being before going to work. The king was probably still asleep right now and would not wake until the middle of the morning. Which was good... as much as Thomas loved his sovereign, the man got even more irritable when he did not sleep well, and that meant for Thomas another entire day of being pushed around, shoved against walls and doors, grabbed brutally by the arms and having his named spit like it belonged to some sort of disgusting animal.

He never understood why the king felt the need to get so physical towards him, especially in bad situations. Maybe it was because of his modest origins, that made him unfit for meddling with the affairs of kings but fit for general abuse. Cardinal Wolsey had assured him many years ago that it was no problem coming from obscure stock—as he had himself—but Thomas had long shed such illusions. It did matter, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. And Wolsey had ended up with his own dagger stuck in his throat anyway.

God knew what awaited for Thomas. He did hope his destiny included remaining in the king's good graces for as long as possible.

He dressed slowly, without the aid of any groom, hoping that his headache would lessen. Since his wife died and his son left to complete his studies, he seldom returned home, preferring to stay in the chambers he had at the palace. Nevertheless, the pain remained as strong as it was when he woke up, and promised to stay with him for the rest of the day.

Thomas broke his fast alone in his chambers and decided to begin his work day early. There was too much to be done and only him do to it. He knew that leaving any serious administrative matters in the hands of that throng of squabbling and scheming lords would mean the ultimate ruin of the crown finances. Not to mention, it would mean the end of Thomas' usefulness and one step nearer to the scaffold.

With His Majesty, you could never know.

~*~

It went as expected—when the sun was nearing it's peak, Thomas was summoned by the king to give him the news of the day. He expected his Majesty to be in a better mood, after the queen's good news. As he hurried towards the Presence Chamber, his headache finally began to fade. Since he arrived at the office, he had not talked to anyone, but sat down and worked diligently to see if he could forget the pain. And he approached the place where the throne was, he began to feel better, and suddenly the day did not seem so bad

When the finally arrived at the king's presence, the headache had disappeared altogether. Could it be the effect of the monarch's sunny presence?, he thought wryly. 

"Mr. Cromwell." His Majesty called him, his voice cheerful after the breakfast with his pregnant wife.

"Your Majesty."

"So... how is that sinful rebellion being dismantled member by member today? I heard of Mr Constable's destiny and am pleased to know that his head is now enjoying the attention of the crows in the bridge."

"That's was my Lord Seymour doing, Your Majesty. He has great skill when it comes to dealing with his enemies." Thomas answered, his face neutral but his voice... not so much. If there was anyone who could steal his position at the moment, Edward Seymour was this person.

_[ Ohh, is that jealousy I see, Mr Cromwell? ]_

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

The king cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I said nothing, Mr Cromwell." _[ Perhaps the lack of sex is finally deteriorating poor Mr Cromwell's mind? ]_

Thomas felt his eyes widen, and fought to keep his countenance neutral. What was he imagining? If the king even dreamt that he had thought of such words, Mr Constable's death would be paradise compared to his! _Keep calm, Thomas_ , he urged himself.

"What else, Mr Cromwell?"

"Your Majesty, the Duke of Suffolk has returned from his mission at the north, but I must say find the reports from Carlisle... hardly sufficient."

He knew that saying anything about His Grace Suffolk was dangerous, but it was the truth and the king had to know.

_[ How bold of you, Mr Cromwell... well, at least I'll have a reason to yell at Charles. Ever since he married that Catherine he has become the most monotonous company in the world, repentant of every fart he releases— ]_

"And why so?"

_[ —I wonder if they even copulate, of if she conceives like some sort of Virgin Mary. Hahaha. ]_

"Erm..."

Had he just heard the king _laugh_ in his thoughts? And have derisory ideas of his best friend, his wife and even the Virgin Mary herself? Or was he succumbing to some sort of unknown disease, and the symptoms were headaches and delusions of clairaudience?

Thomas was struggling to turn the piddling reports from the assizes at Carlisle into formal words for the king, and he opened and closed his mouth several times, without any information leaving his lips.

"Well, Mr Cromwell?" the king asked, tiredly.

_[ Quit gawking, I have most important things to do other than watch you make a fool of yourself... like ordering Quail eggs for the queen... Quail eggs... my Jane is so pure, the former queen's craving during her short-lived pregnancy was wine... which told me a lot about her true nature... ]_

"My Lord of Suffolk has found guilty only seventy-four people at the north, after the trials. I am sure that His Grace was punctilious in accomplishing his mission, however, my sources tell me that there were at least four thousand rebels against Your Majesty. I wonder if His Grace was not too lenient, he's a man of good heart and might have been too—"

_[ Blah blah blah, stop flattering Charles, Mr Cromwell, I know that you hate him. Pfft. ]_

"—merciful against the sinners?" Thomas finished, feeling like he was the most stupid creature to ever walk upon God's verdant earth.

_[ Of course he was merciful, he's trying to become Jesus Christ himself. Idiot. I wish he'd impale all these rebels, himself and maybe even Mr Cromwell for he dares to keep me here when I have far more important business to attend... like getting to know Lady Misseldon better... I wonder if Holbein already finished the painting... hum... ]_

Thomas gulped, waiting for the king's orders, hoping that they would not include his own impalement. 

"Mr Cromwell, summon the Duke of Suffolk and tell him that I want all rebels punished. Men, women and children." _[ Hum... Lady Misseldon... is that an erection I feel inside my breeches? ]_

Thomas paled, but managed to mumble a feeble 'yes, Majesty'. 

"All these rebels are sinners against God and against the sovereignty itself. I am the king anointed by God, and yet they dare not only to raise an insurrection against me but also to mock the full pardon I have offered them!" _[ It's so **hard** to be me. Ha! Hard indeed. Mwahahaha. ]_

 _In the name of the Lord!_ Thomas thought, finally realising that such blasphemous and filthy thoughts could never come from his own mind—he was not that creative. He was indeed reading His Majesty thoughts, and the things the king was thinking about were making his face go from corpse-pale to tomato-red.

_[ I need to get release... should I call for Lady Misseldon or should I ask Mr Cromwell to hold the basin in front of me? ]_

"Yes, Your Majesty."

_[ Tempting ideas, both of them. Although I fear Mr Cromwell would die from the sight of a penis. Especially one like mine. Haha. ]_

He made his most courteous bow, more in an attempt to hide his heated face than to show servility to his king. Then he turned on his heels and prepared to flee the room as quickly as legs could manage, but the king's voice stopped him.

"Wait. Do not forget to send a message to Calais. I need them to send me more—" 

"Quail eggs?" Thomas finished.

The monarch's face showed a bit of surprise, but was quickly concealed behind his usual mask of disdain. He just nodded. _[ How did he get this information? Was it one of the maids? I think not, a nun would be a better seducer than Mr Cromwell... ]_

Thomas kept his eyes down, waiting for His Majesty to dismiss him. He wanted to hear no more. But the king just watched him, an evil grin pulling the corners of his mouth.

_[ I wonder if he even **knows** how to use his manhood... Poor Mrs. Cromwell, no wonder she died. ]_

_Do not panic, Thomas. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic..._ Thomas prayed to himself, as he felt his heart beat so loudly in his chest it would be no wonder if everyone in the room could hear it. He feared the king and felt anxious around him very often—how could you not with such a capricious monarch?—but this was different. He didn't feel scared, but rather, exposed under Henry's unwavering stare.

_[ Is that a virginal blush on your cheeks, Mr Cromwell? It does not go with those high thigh boots you always wear... ]_

As Thomas thought he would faint from anxiety, the king dismissed him with that characteristic gesture that meant "shoo, scum!". He controlled his body as to not scramble out of the Presence Chamber, and further humiliate himself, but the thoughts of the king still followed him even after he left the room.

_[ ...although they certainly complement your arse. Too bad. No arse can be more complemented than mine— ]_

Thomas used every ounce of self-control he had left not to scamper towards his office like a frightened maid.

_[ —my arse was anointed by God, after all. Mwahahaha. ]_

And then the voices inside Thomas' head quieted, as the distance between him and the king increased. When he was away from the monarch and from that horde of courtiers, he allowed himself to slump against the nearest wall and take his time to calm down.

What in Lord's name was happening?

~*~

Thomas favourite time of the day was when he had to reprimand one of the lords on the king's behalf. And when this lord was His _Grace_ Suffolk—who, apparently, forgot all his gracefulness when talking to him—his pleasure was even greater. Thomas was under the impression that the Duke of Suffolk had problems with secretaries and first ministers in general—he had hated Wolsey and now he hated Cromwell too. And he hadn't been particularly fond of More, either.

Maybe he was too possessive of the king's affection. Unfortunately for His Grace, he would never become the Lord Privy Seal with the woeful administrative skills he possessed. Still, Thomas knew that Brandon was much superior to him—should he whisper the right word at the right time in the king's ear, Cromwell could become the name of yet another head in a spike near the bridge in a snap of fingers.

That's why Thomas had to work hard to prove his importance to the king... although he feared his task would become even harder if he had to go through the same ordeal as he had this morning. He didn't dare to think of it... he could not explain it, and the way he behaved inside the Presence Chamber embarrassed him greatly. First, because he had made a fool of himself in front of the king. Second, because he did not use this new-found ability to get any productive results, such as raising his position by foreseeing all the king's desires.

But then again, he had never expected the king's thoughts to be... just like _that_.

"The Duke of Suffolk, my lord," said one of the servants, as His dis-Grace marched into the room confidently.

"You asked to see me?"

"Yes, your Grace," he answered, calmly. It was much easier to speak detachedly to someone when you did not have to hear their thoughts.

"Well," Brandon said, clearly displeased, "explain yourself! What do you want?"

"I have some reports—"

"You always have reports!"

 _Of course I do_! Thomas thought, slightly exasperated. _Some people here actually **work**_. He didn't let his annoyance show though, for that would be a sorry mistake to make. Instead, he just nodded and pursed his lips together, as if in deep concentration. He rested his hand upon a stack of papers upon his desk, and only then turned to Brandon. The man was fuming behind him.

"But these are very interesting. They are reports from the assizes at Carlisle, when you sat in judgement upon the rebels who threatened to overthrow the king's majesty."

Brandon looked at him as if he was less than the dirt under his boots. Thomas paralysed the muscles in his face, as not to reveal how much he was enjoying the situation. "Everything was done legally and properly. Seventy-four rebels were judged and hanged."

"There's a problem. At one point, all agree that there were at least forty thousand rebels armed and in the field. And yet Your Grace found only seventy-four guilty."

"I hanged those who where the leaders and the most guilty of inciting the rest to rebellion. If you had actually been there to hear the evidence..."

There was accusation in Brandon's voice, and Thomas rolled his eyes inwardly. Had he been at Carlisle to hear the evidence, he could only imagine the pandemonium the castle would become. Of course Brandon knew nothing of it, because he never had to work in such things. These lords took great pleasure in parading their governing prowess, but if left to themselves they didn't even know where to start. Too much sex, too much drink and too much intrigue damaged their minds severely. That's why Thomas preferred to keep away from such vices, and concentrate on his work.

And yes, he knew what to do with what he had between his legs. He simply chose not to flaunt it.

"I must be honest with you, Your Grace..." Thomas started then to deliver what he considered one of the most politely accusatory monologues he had ever declared. Of course he knew that Brandon was a papist at his heart and did not care for the reformation, but since he was the king's favourite, there was nothing Thomas could do about this. He tried to be as chastening as he could, without ever lacking respect. He was good at it, if he said so himself.

When he finished his speech, he barely had the time to take a breath before Brandon furiously stomped up to him.

" _Who_ accuses me?" he demanded, extremely chagrined.

"His Majesty," Thomas uttered, the taste of such words sweet upon his tongue. Brandon lost his pose all of a sudden.

Those were Thomas favourite magical words. His. Majesty.

~*~

The sky was already darkening when the king summoned Thomas again. The Lord Privy Seal could not say that he was looking forward to be again in the same room as the king, but since it was not his choice, he trudged miserably towards the king's outer private chamber. The Presence Chamber was at least full of people, but the private rooms had only one or two grooms to attend the king and a guard at the door.

He hoped the malady that had afflicted him earlier had left his body by now.

Unfortunately, as soon as he approached the chambers, the murmur inside his head started again.

_[ I sent for Cromwell more than ten minutes ago! Where is he? I should order him to be hanged with the traitors of the north. ]_

"Lord Cromwell, Your Majesty," the groom announced.

_[ On the other hand, I would never get the chance of commanding him to hold the basin as I satisfy myself... ]_

"Let him in," the king said, his voice impassive.

Thomas stopped in front of the king, who was leaning against the long table of his outer chamber. The secretary bowed slightly, and although the monarch remained silent, his mind didn't quiet for a second.

_[ Forget the basin. I should soil his face instead. He kept me waiting! I, the king of England! No one keeps me waiting! ]_

Thomas gulped and immediately apologised. "I am sorry for my delay, Your Majesty. There were petitioners in the way and they kept halting me—"

"You are not supposed to let yourself be interrupted when you are under your king's orders," Henry said, matter-of-factly, although his face showed signs of great vexation.

"Of course, Your Majesty, you are right, my behaviour was inappropriate—" 

_[ Oops, I frightened my lap dog. Let's hope he does not soil himself. ]_

Thomas tried to ignore his king's mental comment, and stopped talking before he began to stammer like an idiot. Instead, he cleared his throat and opened his leather-bound dossier, to retrieve some papers. The first was a letter from the king of France, congratulating Henry for the good news of the queen's pregnancy. 

"First of all Your Majesty, king Francis sends his good wishes to your and Her Majesty, saying he's much pleased about the happy news."

_[ Deceitful bastard dares to send me a letter. Stop flattering me Francis, I know that you would rather see me and my entire kingdom a hundred feet under the ground. Go sodomise the pope, whoreson. ]_

Thomas cringed at the king's mental words, but said nothing.

"Go on."

"Second... tonight I'll interrogate our two prisoners, Lord Darcy and Robert Aske. I shall bring the reports so they can be judged and accordingly punished for their betrayal, and for begrudging the king's majesty and religious supremacy."

_[ Blah blah blah again... I would rather be with my wife right now. Or with Lady Misseldon. Instead I have to waste my time enjoying Mr Cromwell's loquacity. ]_

"Yes, do it Mr Cromwell. Who will be responsible for the judgements?" 

_[ He has to have better uses for that mouth... ]_

"Sir Richard Rich, Your Majesty."

"Good." _[ Alas, I'm stuck in the room with the only asexual creature in the court. Such is my luck. ]_

They remained in silence for a few seconds. Thomas kept listening to king's thoughts, as they rambled endlessly about how he assumed Mr Cromwell's sexual life—or the lack there of—was like. He seemed to believe that his first minister was some sort of untouched monk, whose sexual inexperience rivalled Lady Mary's. In his idea, Cromwell's son was either a bastard or born from an egg.

Thomas should feel offended, but he didn't dare to. His heart was hammering inside his ribcage, although he kept this composure this time. He had never thought that when the king wasn't thinking about carnage, he'd be thinking about... sex. And not only his own private matters—he speculated about everyone else's. In less than five minutes he had shifted from Thomas presumed asexuality to Mr Rich and the way he always looks nervous around Sir Francis Bryan, was it fear or desire?, and then to Lady Misseldon's breasts (a mental image that made Thomas' face warm) and her buttocks, and that she had been Sir Francis' lover, by the way who was sir Francis seeing now?, oh yes, Lord Seymour's wife, Anne was her name... was she any good in bed? And the His Majesty played in his mind with the image of Ursula Misseldon and Anne Stanhope entwined together on the bed, stark naked. And then suddenly he came back to reality, and thought about his prisoners, and how unlucky they were because not only they were going straight to hell, but also would never have the chance of enjoying an orgasm ever again.

_[ More or less like Mr Cromwell. Is he a castrato, I wonder? ]_

"Mr Cromwell, I must speak to Robert Aske. When you go to the Tower, let the constable know they should expect my arrival after dinner."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

_[ He certainly is soft-spoken... he's too slender to be a full man... maybe it's true... ]_

"Dismissed, Mr Cromwell."

_[ ...we would have to see if he has any pubic hair or chest hair... or we might as well see if he has testicles, in the first place. ]_

Cromwell coughed, quickly bowed to his sovereign and left the chamber.

_[ Should I ask him to drop his breeches during the next meeting? My kingdom for the sight of his face! ]_

He had no idea the king thought so much about him either.

~*~

The night was, as usual, unpleasant as it always was when Thomas had to interrogate prisoners in that dark, damp and gelid Tower, knowing fully well that their fates would be the same, whether they told the truth or lied. If they were dangerous to the crown, then they had to be cropped at the neck, as Mistress Boleyn had once so kindly told him that would be his ending. He knew people thought of him as some sort of devil, who tortured and interrogated for pleasure, but he did not enjoy this job. Of course, he enjoyed giving His Majesty the best news possible, and saying "your enemies have at long last commended their souls to Satan" was always good news for the king.

And what the king wants, he must have.

Except him dropping his breeches in the middle of a meeting. 

The idea made him nervous. He knew his king was a decent man, even though he was fond of women, he behaved better than many other gentlemen of the court, who enjoyed putting it round just for the sake of it. Apart from Mistress Boleyn, he had never publicly displayed any of his lovers, or imposed their presences to the queen. For a king, you could say he was discreet, if a bit cruel. When his interest ended, it felt like death.

Sometimes it became _real_ death.

Even so, who knows if the Duke of Suffolk, the Seymours or maybe that daredevil Sir Bryan would not convince him that this was a great way for the Lord Privy Seal to demonstrate his loyalty? That is, if the king ever mentioned to any of them that he thought that Cromwell was a castrato—which he was _not_. Thomas couldn't help but touch his own crotch to make sure everything was in the right place.

He tried to work until it was time to go to bed again, but his mind was restless. It disturbed him to think that the king analysed him consistently whenever they shared the room. And it was not filled with flattering thoughts, but rather disturbing ones. The memory of the king thinking of his buttocks and his long boots tied his stomach into knots. Many gentlemen of the court wore the very same garments—even the king himself—what was special about him? He was not a young and inexperienced man, and it wasn't like him to become embarrassed for silly reasons... but when it came to Henry VIII, one word was enough to leave him feeling inadequate. 

When Thomas realised he was not getting any more work done for the night, he decided it was time to retire. He organised his desk, bid good evening to the clerks that were still finishing their tasks and left the office. He did not go to the great hall to enjoy the evening like the other courtiers; instead, he scuttled towards his chambers, only feeling safe when the door closed behind his deck.

He undressed rather messily, washed himself and went to bed. He did not bother to ask for a supper.

~*~~

The following day started the very same way. A headache greeted him, first thing in the morning. Although he wasn't so drained today, he still had to drag himself out of the bed, spend ten minutes washing his face in a hopeless attempt to look normal and wonder why did he have to go through such suffering. Was it because he had found false accusations against Mistress Boleyn? Or because he destroyed the abbeys? He knew that God did not need abbeys and lazy fat bishops to bless and communicate with His flock. So why was he being punished?

Thomas tried not to think of it as he enjoyed his breakfast. He was ravenous; the previous day's happenings had left him with little appetite, but now there was a hole in his stomach.

He was finishing his dressing when his servant announced that the groom of the king wanted to speak to him. His Majesty demanded Cromwell's presence at once.

The torture was going to start early this time.

~*~

Thomas found king Henry sitting at the long table of his outer private chamber. The monarch was admiring in deep concentration a small but perfect model of a galley. The craftsmanship was impressive, and he could tell that the king was pleased because the smile on his face was sincere—a rarity. And that was always a good sign. Especially because Thomas had some bad news to deliver about a _certain_ Cardinal Pole.

And then the mental blathering began.

_[ I should reward this designer with a title or something. His job was superb. Unlike the jobs of certain people here at the court... you only get one good servant in every hundred. I hope that Charles is already hanging infidels by the time my queen wakes up. Idiot. ]_

At last, the king turned to Thomas and asked him, cheerfully.

"Has Suffolk been dispatched to the north?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

_[ 'Yes Your Majesty', 'Of course Your Majesty'... not so creative, are you? Then again, better not. The last people with ideas of their own started a rebellion. ]_

"What did you say to him?"

Thomas cleared his throat. "I urged him, as a true knight to his sovereign lord, and as a man of war, not to spare but to slay plenty of these false rebels. I said there was no need for courtesy when shedding the blood of traitors."

_[ Yes, right. I think it was more on the lines of 'kill them because His Majesty said so'. Hahaha. Always using my hallowed name in vain. Bastard Cromwell. ]_

"And?" the king asked, his face already displaying signs of boredom.

_[ I should like to see you using me as an excuse for everything when your enemies make you a head shorter. ]_

Thomas struggled to pretend he had not heard such things, and kept his voice neutral. "The emperor will shortly be sending an envoy here with authority to discuss with Your Majesty—"

_[ Because it will happen. Eventually. But not before the experiment with the basin—I need to nourish love, after all. ]_

"—possible candidates for the hand of Lady Mary," he finished, feeling like he had ran a marathon. 

The king nodded; clearly, he had not paid any attention to the last message. He looked once more at the model, and Thomas saw his mind become cluttered with images of the real ship, covered in flowers and flags and jewels. And the beautiful queen Jane, in the biggest coronation ceremony Europe had ever witnessed. Henry even imagined Her Majesty's clothes, and that was dangerous, for seconds later he imagined her without any clothes, and his following thoughts were of the kind that Cromwell could be chopped in pieces just for entertaining.

_[ Jane, Jane... one child is hardly enough. I can barely wait to possess you again... look what thinking of you does to me... ]_

And Thomas saw His Majesty discreetly slip his hand into his lap to adjust what was probably another erection. Thomas tried to think of distasteful things and situations, as to keep his body from responding in sympathy. To no avail.

_[ Should I order Mr Cromwell to fetch the basin? I woke up with a huge erection this morning. ]_

"Tell me," said the king, his words the complete opposite of his thoughts, "what do you you think of this? It's the _Bucintoro_ , the doge's galley. When it's built, the queen will ride in it to her coronation." 

"Then it will indeed be a memorable occasion," Thomas added, trying to divert his attention from the king's sexual thoughts.

_[ Then again, my erections are **always** huge. Like the rest of me. I am the quintessential virile man. Mwahahaha! ]_

"Of course it will have to wait until after my son is born."

Thomas just nodded, too distracted by the images the king had in his mind. They did not only include the queen laying on the royal bed nude and with her legs spread, but also Thomas himself, kneeling on the floor with a basin before his face, while His Majesty.... _Oh, God._

All of a sudden, the thoughts stopped. The silence lasted less than one second, before Henry noticed the paper his servant was carrying. The king grimaced, knowing that it probably wasn't a good thing. And his thoughts mirrored his expression in perfect perversity. 

"What is that?" _[ You should be using this mouth to fellate me instead of bringing me dreadful reports. ]_

Thomas did not let himself think about the implications of His Majesty mental words, and proceeded to tell him about the cardinal Reginald Pole, and the vile words he had written in that pamphlet. The king cursed him once again for being the herald of bad news, but as he got up and ripped the leaflet apart, his worst thoughts of torture and pain were directed to the cardinal and what would become of him under Henry's hands.

_[ I should run a sharp stake through the cardinal's body, that's it! ]_

Henry imagined the bloody scene. Thomas shut his eyes to block the image, uselessly.

_[ Then again, he may like it. He is probably the vicar's harlot. ]_

And the king imagined some more, and Thomas felt his breakfast churn in his stomach. 

_[ We should add thorns to the stake. Ha! I'm such a brilliant torturer! ]_

Thomas never thought he could become traumatised by ideas. But now he knew better.

~*~

The rest of the day was calm, because Thomas was not summoned by the king again, and thus was able to maintain his usual serene and unperturbed demeanour. The only news he had of the king came from Sir Rich, who told him the king had spent the whole afternoon discussing cardinal Pole's fate with Sir Francis Bryan. He forbid Richie of sharing the lurid details of their plans—he had enough slaughter to colour his mind for days to come. 

The night came, and this time he went to the main hall for the dinner. As the courtiers danced, drank and laughed, he collected money from the lords interested in the buying the leases of the suppressed religious houses. He could feel the queen and her brother's eyes boring into the back of his skull, but he would not apologise for this practice. The only reason why the crown was so rich right now was because of his work—both administering the finances and seizing the undeserved riches of that pack of false priests.

When he finished his business with all the interested lords, he left the hall. He had no intention of overstaying his welcome by exposing his activities to queen more than it was necessary. Let her think that the money grew on trees. She was a good woman, but like all noble women, she did not know where her wealth came from.

He went straight to his chambers to get some rest. This time, Thomas allowed himself to have a decent bath and supper, and before going to bed, he decided to read a book. Relax. Coping with His Majesty's thoughts was such an herculean tribulation, and planted so many disturbing thoughts in his mind, that he picked the most platitudinous novel he had in his collection to read. At least those were free from violence, impalements, erections and basins.

His mind on the other hand, refused to let go. Every now and then, when the story became too boring (and that happened far too often for his tastes), it would wander back to the image of himself on his knees, holding the king's basin. And inside his nightgown, his member stirred at the memory, much to his dismay. Thomas should have been disgusted by the idea, but for reasons that disturbed him far more than cardinal Pole's imagined torture and death, it did not. He had seen His Majesty half naked many times, and there was nothing about his body—aside from that wound on his leg—that could be considered disgusting. 

Actually, it was the kind of physique that begged to be worshipped.

Thomas shook his head, trying to clear his mind from these ridiculous thoughts. If he knew what was better for him, he'd pretend not to listen king Henry's words and just concentrate on his real words. And stop making it worse by adding his own wicked ideas. Like any good servant should do.

A knock in his door brought him back to reality. He quickly hid the book under his pillows, and covered his lap. His groom told him that the king had sent a message—he expected Mr Cromwell to go in his private chambers at once.

Thomas sighed at his persistent misfortune.

~*~

 

He never knew what was better for him.

As soon as the stepped into the royal chamber, his mind became so noisy that he felt tempted to ask himself how did the king endure himself. But the monarch didn't seem to mind—in fact, he purposely allowed to mind to indulge in practically non-stop verborrhea. And Thomas indulged into listening to it.

_[ I am sure that the queen is keeping Lady Misseldon away from my chambers in purpose. I forgive her, because she's so pure. And because she is carrying my son. My son. I'm sure that it is a son. His name will be Edward. Or Arthur? No, king Arthur ended up without his wife and without his sword— ]_

Cromwell noticed that there was no groom or herald in the room, so that meant he would have to announce himself before entering the king's bedroom.

_[ —not that it made any difference, because Queen Guinevere preferred Sir Lancelot's sword. Mwahahaha. I'm the king of the satire! ]_

"Majesty? It's Cromwell... you sent for me. Shall I come in?"

_[ No, idiot, I sent for you because I wanted you to stay outside my door all night. Because I can. Hahaha. I feel so humorous tonight. ]_

"Please, come in," the king answered, his voice neutral.

When Thomas entered the bedroom, he noticed two things. First, the room was warm—too warm. Second, the king was dressed in a nightgown that left very little to the imagination. Even to Thomas' imagination, although he had to admit he had spent the last two days improving his otherwise barely existent imaginative skills.

He bowed to His Majesty and stayed near the door, stoically prepared to receive any orders. _[ Keep bowing Mr Cromwell, it's the position in which you look best. Aside from when you are on your knees. ]_

"How can I be of service, Your Majesty?"

_[ I should like to see him on him knees more often... ]_

"Firstly, Mr Cromwell, you could _approach_ the bed on which I am seated. I would not like to damage my voice because my first minister was across the room when I tried to speak to him."

His legs moved before his brain noticed it. In a matter of seconds, he was standing by the king's bed. And the king's thoughts were even louder in his mind, if such things was possible.

_[ Black becomes you, Mr Cromwell... I would not like to stain this nicely tailored surcoat... ]_

Thomas felt what was coming before his mind could put it into an image. Which was very unnecessary, considering his king provided all the pictures he needed to understand what the night held for him. His breath caught in his throat and he felt slightly light-headed. 

_[ ...but then again, he can always claim that he spilt porridge on his clothes. Mwahahahaha. ]_

What was he to do?

"Well Mr Cromwell, I need you help with a private matter..."

Thomas only nodded. 

_[ I wish Mr Cromwell would not act like a virgin maiden about to be ravished— ]_

The first minister straightened his posture, as to seem less frightened. The king was unconvinced.

_[ —even the Lady Mary has more backbone. And by the way, I ought to keep an eye on Lady Mary... Sir Francis might think it a good idea to teach her what cunnilingus is... ]_

"Well, Mr Cromwell? Are you not going to say anything?"

"Erm... of course, Your Majesty, I—"

"Are you all right, Mr Cromwell?" the king's voice showed a tinge of annoyance.

_[ Stop acting like a bloody fool or I shall hand you to Lord Seymour. You will not like his style of sodomy... I heard he starts his lovemaking with hot iron pokers— ]_

Thomas gulped. "No, Your Majesty. Everything is fine."

_[ —no wonder his wife lies with Sir Francis instead... ]_

"Good. You know that nothing would anger me more than if you were to befoul every drapery and bedding of this room with an unknown disease that could contaminate me and therefore put the whole future of the realm in jeopardy."

"Of course not, Majesty. I can assure you that I carry no illness."

 _Except that you are just hearing the king's thoughts—that is the very definition of **normalcy**_ , he scolded himself, not knowing how to get out of the situation. He knew the king was playing with him, but he could not escape the king's clutch without offending his master, and if he did that he might be putting his future at stake. Henry bestowed and withdrew his favour on whim, and his whim was not the sort of thing to be played with.

The king got up from his bed and started pacing to and fro. His mind kept complaining about how had not seen his mistress in two days, and how he should go mad from the excessive seed that was concentrating in his testicles. _[ I must not only nourish love but sow it in my subjects' hearts, after all. Sow. Seed. Hahahahaha! ]_ But his pacing continued, despite the mental jest, and Thomas saw the king look at him, and then to the ground several times. From what he could fathom of His Majesty's inner chaos, the man was trying to find a polite way to order him to his task.

"Mr Cromwell... as you well know, I have not been able to sleep with my wife as a husband ought to do thanks to her current condition..."

"Yes, Majesty."

"Therefore I find myself in need of relief. Please, do fetch the basin that is on the chimneypiece."

Thomas expected himself to become once again nervous, but surprisingly, he didn't. The idea has been in his mind for such long hours now that he couldn't find it in him to feel daunted. Embarrassingly enough, a part of him felt excited, although he tried to tell himself it was nothing but the desire of getting this all done. He knew it was coming, the sooner the better.

"Your Majesty would not feel more comfortable in the company of your groom?" he asked, trying to bid his time.

_[ That uninspiring groom? God no! I don't even know how he has lasted for so long, because he does not attract me the slightest! I knew that Mr Cromwell had no competence for this sort of matter! ]_

"I trust you more than I trust any groom."

_[ I wonder if he will even know where to keep the basin. He is so calm... Does he believe that by relief I mean that I need help to urinate? ]_

Thomas felt like laughing for the first time since this absurd situation started. He knew there were grooms who helped His Majesty with his toilet, but after being a witness of his monarch's mind for forty-eight hours that was the last kind of help he expected the king to ask him. Thomas searched for the basin with his eyes, while the king ranted in his mind about how mad he should be if his first minister proved to be so vapid—a disappointment the Earl of Essex would not give him.

"Your Majesty?"

"Yes?" _[ I don't want to know unless you have the basi— ]_

"There is no basin on the chimneypiece."

Henry's eyes widened slightly, and Thomas sure he could see a bit of red on his cheeks. He did not have much time to concentrate on it, before loud yells and imprecations pounded in his mind like the hammer of a mad blacksmith against an anvil. Thomas knew his king was cursing the poor groom's entire family, from Adam and Eve to the grandchildren the boy still didn't have. _[ Damn you groom to the darkest pits of Hell, I swear your lineage shall not thrive for I will hang you by your intestines and leave your body for the crows to feast upon—! ]_

The mental images were repulsive, as usual. Thomas waited until the shrieks has subsided inside his head before attempting any further communication with his sovereign.

When the king seemed a little less red on the face, and his thoughts a little less homicidal, he dared to speak.

"Are you all right, Your Majesty?"

Henry stared at him as if his foolishness knew no limits.

"Yes," his voice was strained, "That vacuous fool that serves me forgot to leave the basin. I do not know how we shall proceed now."

Thomas had a sudden flash of brilliance. It was time to put his ability to a good use and give the king what he wants.

"If Your Majesty needs my help... I do not require a basin between us."

The silence that befell not only the king's chamber, but also his mind, startled Thomas. He did not know the king was actually capable of making his mind go quiet—yet now he heard nothing but the fire crackling in the hearth. A few seconds passed, without any reaction or thought from the men in front of him, and Thomas began to wonder if the idea of doing it without the basin was just one of the king's private jests. Insecurity finally began to spread throughout his muscles—what was he thinking?

Then he noticed a feral grin overtake His Majesty's face as the monarch approached his servant. He heard his mind before he heard his words.

_[ Never ceases to amaze me, my lap dog. ]_

Henry was now standing so close to Thomas that he could smell the king's cologne, and the scent of his sweat. That sent a sharp jolt of desire to his member, and made his knees buckle. Thomas bowed to his master once more, but this time looking straight into the king's eyes, unwavering.

"I think I like your idea, Mr Cromwell."

Thomas was rewarded with a savage smile, before he offered the king his most sensual genuflection.

And the king's thoughts were like poetry to his ears when Thomas took him in his mouth.

~*~

The day started like any other day. Thomas opened his eyes, briefly blinded by the light that came from the window. Nature strikes again. Time to rise.

He tried not to think of the previous night's events, as he washed his face. Unfortunately for him, his mind did not know how to obey, and before he could control his actions he had a hand wrapped around his penis and a "Your Majesty" moan escaping his lips.

God forbid anyone from seeing him in such state. 

Thomas figured that the right emotion to feel in this moment was shame, but truth be told, he felt happy. Excited. Reborn. Two orgasms in less than a day, he considered himself lucky. 

As he dressed himself and took his breakfast, he thought about his king and his need to nourish love. For the first time, the idea made sense to him.

The king had sown love into his heart, and into his body. And Thomas felt nourished. 

Only when he arrived at his office with an uncharacteristic smile upon his lips—which was bound to become Sir Rich's next gossip—did he realise that there was no headache to plague him this morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this story was inspired by the fanfic _Brainwaves_ , a House MD fanfic written by **peak_in_darien** , in which House and Chase can all of a sudden read each other's thoughts and... porn ensues. I've just used the main idea of the story, the mind reading thing (and maybe a bit of the porn).
> 
>  
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>  **Disclaimer:** None of the characters mentioned in this fanfic belong to me, and nothing said here about them is true. No copyright infringement is intended.


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